


It's Not About the Tree

by singeli



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Jewish Character, John/Sherlock if you squint, M/M, Unbeta'd, anti-Semitism, just in general; not expressed by any particular character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:48:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singeli/pseuds/singeli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's not really feeling the Christmas spirit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not About the Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [professorfangirl (lizeckhart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizeckhart/gifts).



> Written for professorfangirl, who inspired my now rapidly-growing headcanons for a Jewish Sherlock Holmes.

The laughter of Anderson and Lestrade follows them to the street, where Sherlock works his magic and conjures a cab to return them to 221B. He hurls himself into the cab after John, and sits in brooding silence, arms folded. 

"Sherlock," John says, placatingly, "you're not really a Scrooge. They're just taking the mickey."

Sherlock snorts. 

"We live in a nation of hypocrites, John. Or has it escaped your notice that for all the supposed atheists and agnostics in the population of the United Kingdom, the country still throws itself every year into wrapping mass-produced shoddy craftsmanship in the most lurid paper imaginable, setting up firetraps in their homes, caterwauling the most irritating anthems on the street corners, and haranguing every bloody passerby for spare change, all in the name of a bastard Hebrew rebel born some two thousand years ago and executed for his zealotry.

"They can lie to themselves all they want, they're still calling it _Christmas_. Christ's Mass." Sherlock practically spits the words. 

"So... no tree this year then?"

All of a sudden, Sherlock's manic energy dissipates, leaving him deflated, huddling in his Belstaff. He gazes out the window as grey, wintry London passes by.

"It's not about the tree," he murmurs, so softly that John almost doesn't catch it. 

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, but if you want me to understand, you're going to have to spell it out."

They sit quietly for a few minutes. John thinks Sherlock has decided an explanation isn't worth the effort, when suddenly the deductionist turns to him. 

"The very nature of the holiday is a rejection of who I am, John. You can dress it up in mulled wine and mince pies and garland and gifts all you want; at its heart the celebration, no matter what anyone says, is a celebration of a faith that appropriated pagan traditions to announce the birth of their supposed Saviour, and then used the death of their Saviour as an excuse to persecute my people for thousands of years – an excuse which makes no logical sense, by the way, because by their own rationale, their Christ _had_ to die in order for his birth to have a point! Imbeciles."

"You're Jewish?"

No one else would have noticed, but John, who knows Sherlock so well (too well), sees the minute stiffening of the shoulders. Time to defuse the situation, then.

"Well, no wonder you'd rather not have the holiday thrown in your face all the time."

Sherlock shrugs with almost convincing nonchalance. "Putting up a fight against the holiday takes up too much mental space, John. Anyway, you've already bought me a pair of fingerless cashmere gloves and a catalogue of the plants of southeast Asia and their uses, and I expect to receive them on the twenty-fifth regardless of my personal feelings towards the day. Incidentally, I'd prefer the grey, not the black." 

John opens his mouth to ask how Sherlock could possibly know what John got him for Christmas – John hasn't even bought the bloody gloves yet! – then closes his mouth, thinking better of it.

"Bah humbug," says Sherlock, with cheerful smugness.

(On Christmas Day, John brings home their usual Chinese takeaway, although the mu shu pork is noticeably absent. Sherlock rolls his eyes. On Boxing Day, John wakes to the smell of sausages wafting up the stairs, and enters the kitchen to find Sherlock seated at the table eating fried bangers. John takes it as the gentle reproof it's meant to be, and grabs a plate from the cupboard, only to find that Sherlock's eaten the last of the sausages, and all that's left are the eggs and the severed fingers in the fridge. Which means Sherlock went out to buy the sausages specifically, and they're still out of milk. Typical.)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written rather quickly, so I apologise for the lack of polish!
> 
> More importantly, a GIANT disclaimer: I am not Jewish. I am, however, very interested in theology and religion as it is experienced and practiced as an identity. My closest friends happen to be Jewish, and we have shared many wonderful discussions over the years about Judaism as a faith and as an identity, the experience of being a religious minority, interfaith work, holiday foods, and lots of other cool topics. Some of what we've discussed has made its way into this fic. I hope that I have portrayed Judaism respectfully and accurately. If there is anything you see in the above fic that you feel misrepresents Judaism in any way, please message me and I will respond!
> 
> (Please do not message me saying "BUT SHERLOCK HOLMES WASN'T JEWISH; CHRISTMAS IS CANON!!!!" Sherlock has also been written as a faun. Check your anti-Semitism at the door.)


End file.
